The Teeth That Laugh
by grumkinsnark
Summary: Patty Spivot may not be able to begrudge the Flash in good conscience, but she sure as hell is going to begrudge Barry Allen. Tag to episode 2x11.
Prompt: _Please just ask me to stay._

* * *

 **The Teeth That Laugh**

* * *

The thing is, Patty Spivot isn't that kind of girl. She's not the manipulator who delights in doling out ultimatums. She's not the kind of girl to throw her life away over some boy. Boys are a dime-a-dozen, this opportunity isn't. And yet here she finds herself, standing in front of _this_ boy, asking him— _begging him_ —to ask her to stay, to _want_ her to stay.

It's not even that she necessarily _would_ stay—because, no matter Barry's answer, she's going to get her forensic science certification, she's going to embark on this new branch of her life. No, she just wants some reaction, some selfish, desperate desire of his that has him wanting nothing more than for her to remain by his side. Because she knows he's not that kind of guy either, the one to accept that conundrums are either-or, that compromise isn't an option. She wants him to say something like, _Of course I want you to stay, Patty. I don't care if you know I'm the Flash, I just don't want us to be over._

She doesn't get any of that.

What she gets is, _I can't do that. I'm not him._

Just like that. Abrupt. Surgical. He'd rather an acrimonious split, a brusque not-even-sort-of closure than confirm that she's right. Her anger, of course, will come later. The anger that he hadn't told her in the first place, that _no one_ had told her, not even her partner for whom she'd put her life on the line day in and day out, that she'd had to figure it out herself. Maybe they'd _never_ planned on letting her in on the secret: maybe they'd just wanted her to go through life being the oblivious girlfriend who gets only half-assed lies instead of real explanations as to where her boyfriend keeps racing off to.

So, no, she's not that kind of girl, but she'd wanted him to be that boy, the selfish one, if only for a moment. Hell, she probably would have accepted any kind of plea, whether it came with a Flash reveal or not. Yet Barry had simply taken it in stride, like their relationship had been a passing interest, some witty banter and excellent sex but little else substantial. Sure, he'd indirectly said he'd loved her, but she's finding that extremely hard to believe when he's made no effort to salvage the two of them.

She can't say she's ever really been in love before—surely _this_ can't be what all the movies proclaim, can it?—yet she'd like to think it entails something more than a shrug. And, okay, he'd seemed legitimately bummed, especially when she'd first told him, and okay, he had been squirrelly and avoiding eye contact, but if that's her new standard for someone being upset at the prospect of losing her, then she has more problems than just Barry.

She's considered that maybe his lack of reaction was due to another girl, which would maybe have made the whole thing easier: it wouldn't be that he didn't want to lie to her, but that he'd been hung up on someone else. Only, for all his faults, she's certain Barry's not the type of guy to lead people on. And, anyway, who could it possibly be? To her knowledge, the only other women he has in his life are a coworker and foster sister. Hardly viable options, there.

The sole silver lining that she can see is that it makes her decision to leave easier. If Barry _had_ asked her stay, if he _had_ confessed that he was the Flash, it would have made it that much more difficult to actually go through with it. Not that Midway is impossibly far away, and definitely not with Barry's speed, but still. Long-distance relationships rarely work out for normal people, let alone when one half of the relationship is a superhero, and Barry's got all of those rogue metahumans to worry about. She'd just…get in the way.

She allows herself one night to cry over Barry's relative indifference, to drink most of a bottle of wine and two sleeves of Oreos, before finally heading to bed— _their_ bed, as she'd come to calling it—and doing her best to fall asleep. Except even that doesn't come quickly, not when Barry's pillow is still beside her, still smells of him and that cheap aftershave he buys, not when she's spent so many nights curled up next to his warmth with his arm securely around her. It's strange, going back so suddenly to being the only one underneath the comforter, her mattress seeming much too large and empty now.

Absurdly, right before she does eventually fall asleep, she thinks of Iris. Of their impromptu meeting at Jitters, how she'd chosen the woman precisely because of her close friendship with Barry. She'd figured that if anyone could decode the mystery of Barry Allen, it'd be his best friend. And Iris _had_ helped, kind of, but now, in the dark of her room, she can't help but wonder if maybe Iris had left something out. If she'd known what exactly Barry's keeping from her yet had declined to share. She can't fathom why—Iris has been nothing but supportive and friendly to her, always with a smile on her face and kind words—and the wine and fatigue have her not remembering the unease when morning dawns.

She doesn't get the idea until much later, until she's got her essentials packed and is on the train headed for Midway. It makes her feel gross inside, like those times in undergrad when she'd subsisted during dead week on leftover pizza and flat soda, trapping him like this. She rationalizes it as that it serves him right. If he'd just _told_ her, if he'd just _asked_ her, she wouldn't have to resort to such underhanded measures.

She glances around the compartment, wishing there were fewer people to witness this, and bites her lip. It's now or never, really, and she decides she can deal with the guilt at a later date. She dials his number out of reflex more than anything else, and patently ignores the way her heart aches when he picks up on the first ring.

"Hey," he greets neutrally.

"Barry, I-I'm on the train," she says, schooling her voice into something resembling panic. "There's a…there's a man with a gun."

Not her best effort, but it works. "All right, hold on," Barry replies, his distress sounding genuine. "I—I'll get you help."

She leans her head back on the seat, debating whether she should call him back and tell him it was a false alarm. But no, she needs to know. Though there's no shred of doubt in her mind as to the Flash's identity, she needs to see it for herself. Needs to see the persona that nearly singlehandedly had dismantled the best relationship she's ever had. She has to be validated, just _once_.

It doesn't take long, mere seconds, and then there's a burst of orange lightning and the Flash appears, clad all in red and glancing around with the kind of concern that only comes from a personal connection. He asks the train at large whether everyone is okay, and they all stare at him like he's nuts, because it's clear there's no threat.

She stands, in case he decides to speed off to another compartment. His face is blurred, and she can see the indecision there, and then finally he stops, his features melding back into focus. To his credit, there is authentic contrition, though it doesn't help.

There's so much she wants to say to him, so much she wants to _yell_ at him. She wants to tell him he's being a dick, that it's ridiculously childish and inconsiderate of him to not give her the courtesy of sharing such a huge part of who he is, to take him to task about how he'd lied to her from the get-go. That whatever reason he'd had for it all is bogus. She can protect herself, if that's what has him worried. And even if she weren't able to, she'd rather know the truth and get physically hurt than suffer what she had—the not knowing, the rampant possibilities, the private wonderings of if he was cheating on her, the pervasive thoughts that she wasn't enough for him.

She doesn't do any of that. What comes out of her mouth is a meek, "Thanks for coming so fast, Flash," and she hates herself a little for it.

"Just want to make sure everything's okay before I go."

"Don't worry, everything's good," she lies, and he actually _smiles_ , like she's not still pissed, like him un-blurring his face somehow makes it all okay.

And then he zooms away before she can do anything else, leaving her blood boiling and her angrily sitting back down in her seat to stare out the darkened window. She mutters a goodbye as she watches the streak of lightning disappear into the night, and does her best not to let her irritation fester into something worse.

Patty Spivot may not be able to begrudge the Flash in good conscience, given all the help he's provided for the city and the amount of people he's saved, but she sure as hell is going to begrudge Barry Allen.


End file.
